The Good Slytherin
by TheWolffman
Summary: One house has a notorious reputation for producing dark wizards. But they can't be all bad, can they?


The Good Slytherin

"But, he's a Slytherin."

"Yeah, but he's not really like them. He's a good one."

"I didn't know they made good ones."

He was used to that. Most students in the other houses saw him and the other Slytherins roaming the halls like a gang of highwaymen ready to take everything they've got. Though he wasn't that, it made walking down the hallways at Hogwarts easier.

"She's right," he said. "I'm about as much a dark wizard as my Muggle mother. Well, as far as I know. She does have her hobbies."

There was a smile from the skeptical Ravenclaw girl, and he knew that he might have his opening. Classes with Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs for that matter, were always better than classes with Gryffindors. With the other houses, he stood a chance at getting friendly, and possibly even making friends. Not so with the Lions of Gryffindor. They always seemed ready to lash out or just put up barriers. If they didn't hate him, they simply ignored him.

"That's a funny looking wand you've got." said the skeptical Ravenclaw. "It's awfully twisted and long. What was Ollivander thinking when he made that?"

"It's not from Ollivander. This is a Gregorovitch. Willowood, 18 inches with Salamander-"

"Quiet please, Mr. Davis," said Professor Dumbledore.

He turned away from the charming Ravenclaw girls, and back to his task for that lesson. Dumbledore wanted everyone to transfigure their rats into alarm clocks. Most attempts so far had been hairy, or with whiskers instead of watch-hands. A fellow Slytherin was trying to chase down his clock that still had legs, and did not agree with the whole enterprise at all.

However, Davis had already transfigured his rat into an alarm clock and back, and was currently putting the finishing touches on his transfiguration experiment. Instead of fully transfiguring the rodent, he had split the difference and made a fully animated clockwork rat that clicked and whirred with cogwheels and springs as it scuttled across his table. He even made it rattle and ring instead of squeak, which captured him annoyed glances from struggling students nearby, but charmed giggles from those Ravenclaws. And as the clockwork rat prepared to hop over to their table, Dumbledore blocked its leap, causing it to recoil onto the table. A few springs and cogwheels scattered.

"Struggling for a complete Transfiguration, Mr. Davis?" asked Dumbledore over his glasses.

"No sir, Professor. I've got a handle on that. I was just experimenting." He waved his wand to return the rat to working order, and it looked up at Dumbledore a bit annoyed.

"Very interesting mixture. I especially like the touch of having the ears replaced with the ringers.

He had hoped dumbledore would come over to see what he had been doing. It was easy to get the praise of the potions master, since he was head of house, but getting the head of Gryffindor's approval would be quite a coup. " Thank you Professor. But trying this has brought up a question."

"And what is that, Mr Davis?"

"Well, in transfiguration, there are many times when we take an inanimate object, and turn it into an animate one. And as many where we do the opposite. What I'm wondering is where does the life come from when we say, turn a shoe brush into a hedgehog that makes it behave like a live one, and where does the life go in, say a rat, when it is turned into an alarm clock?"

"A fascinating question. What do you think?"

"I honestly don't know. That's why I did this. The trouble is, I can't tell if this is a fully mechanical machine that is simulating life, or if it is a spirit piloting a machine body. And even if I knew which is which, I'm still unable to account for the source of that life, if it's even present at all."

"Interesting. Very Interesting, Mr.. Davis. I cannot answer that question because I do not know myself. But I encourage you to keep asking such questions, and try to find the correct answers." Davis was glowing now. He could see the spark behind the half-moon spectacles that told him that he had done something special. "Full marks today, Mr. Davis. You may clean up and go if you like."

"Thank you professor, but could I stay and help the other students?"

"You may," he said with a smile, and turned away.

Davis put his clockwork rat in his bag, got out his wand, and walked directly past the struggling Slytherins around him towards the two Ravenclaws. He continued to help them until the end of the period. As they gathered up their things, he batted at his mechanical creature to keep it hidden beneath his astronomy book. Both Ravenclaw girls were smiling at him, and he was certain he had won them both over. It was fun helping them out, and, maybe, he improved the standing of Slytherins in their eyes.

"That weird wand works pretty well I guess," said one of them.

"Thanks for the help," said the other, before saying to her friend, " I told you he was a good one."

"I'm still surprised they make good ones," said her friend, following her down the corridor.

"Oh, now, don't say that. We've got wizards from our house to be proud of. Why, Merlin himself was a Slytherin-"

"And we thought you were one too!"

Davis turned to see a few of his fellow house members glaring at him and the two Ravenclaws. Before he turned back, the girls had already wandered off. He joined his fellow Slytherins as they made their way to the great hall.

"What are you playing at?" said Avery, lurching with every step. "I couldn't figure anything out in there for the life of me. And you were helping _them_?"

"I never caught my rat!" said Macnair, curling his nose. "I botched the whole day, thanks to you!"

"Me? Why is it my responsibility to chase _your_ rat?" Davis replied.

"Because you are a Slytherin. We stick together." said Avery, being very serious. "Why are you always running off with people from other houses?"

"There are other kinds of people, you know? Why shouldn't I want friends of all kinds?"

"There are some kinds you don't want to mix with." said Macnair with a gruff whisper.

"Pfft, that blood nonsense? I don't care about that. Look at me, I'm half blood! So's your ringleader, eh? Plus I think it's an advantage to befriend as many people as I can. And if finding an advantage isn't being a Slytherin, I don't know what is!"

Avery, MacNair, and a few others looked at him with complete confusion, and walked on without him He was fine with this, since he had an odd stop to make on his way to lunch. He passed by a group of first years being drenched with lakewater that was dredged up and spat out by Peeves. It was impressive amount of water for such a small man. He was on the first floor and continued walking until his feet started to splash again. But this water was not brought on by poltergeists. At least, technically not poltergeists.

He entered the first floor girls lavatory, calling out to make sure it was devoid of any girls. As he splashed through the overflowing water, he heard the sound of weeping coming from the the furthest stall. Knocking on the door, he was sure that he would not be disturbing a living soul.

"What is it?" said the crying voice. "What do you want?"

"It's me Myrtle."

The weeping stopped and the door opened. Staring at him through thick spectral glasses was the ghost of Myrtle Warren. "Clark! You came to visit!"

"I said I would," he replied. Myrtle was not like the other Hogwarts ghosts. They were all from ages ago, dying in highly romantic or dramatic ways that seem more quaint than sad. Myrtle, on the other hand had died the previous year because someone had unleashed a monster on the school. Her body wasn't cold before her weeping spirit began haunting the lavatory she died in. Clark had known her when she was alive. He was a friend.

To many, it looked like Clark was trying to make friends with only the smartest and best people so that he could use their skills to his benefit. He was looked at like Professor Slughorn was, he imagined; always trying to get the future top witches and wizard families on his list. But he wasn't Slughorn. The truth was, outside of Hogwarts, Clark didn't really have any friends. He was always weird and his magic didn't make friendship easy with muggles, especially when he couldn't control it as a kid. So for him, friendship, when he could get it, wasn't an advantage for professional or academic reasons: it was to fight back against the creeping loneliness that threatened to ice up his heart.

He saw that loneliness when he met Myrtle.

"What classes today then?" asked Myrtle, splashing her feet in the toilet.

"Had Herbology and transfiguration this morning. Got slashed by some Devil's Snare, see?" He held up his gashed arm. Myrtle was positively thrilled by morbid sights, so she "Oohed" with wonder. "This afternoon should have been double Care of Magical Creatures, but old Kettleburn's on probation again for trying to teach us how to hatch basilisk eggs. So I have the afternoon off until Astronomy tonight."

"Oh, I see," she said glumly. "You'll get to spend the afternoon in the sun feeling warm and happy, with blood still pumping through your veins." Death had not made sad little Myrtle any happier. That was probably the hardest part. Seeing her sulk all day everyday. At least the other ghosts were able to enjoy being dead… sort of.

"What were you up to today?" he asked her.

"Sitting in the drain, thinking about death." she said, like she always did. "Though I did get to chase Olive Hornby out of the second floor toilet. She screamed and screamed!" She laughed those words out, and Clark was glad to hear it. She didn't laugh much, except when it was about terrorizing Olive. Seemed fair enough to him. Olive was so mean to her. "What's that in your bag? It's trying to get out!"

Clark opened the flap on his bag and pulled out the clockwork rat. It twitched its minute and second hand whiskers at Myrtle, who eyed it suspiciously. "Just my project from transfiguration."

"Well what is it? A rat trying to be a clock, or a clock trying to be a rat?"

"Both? Neither? I'm trying to figure that out. Where do transfigured rat spirits go and where they come from? It's kind of confusing."

"I'll say," she moped. The spirit talk was bringing her down, though there was little he could do. She was always feeling down.

"Myrtle, I've been wanting to ask you something since last year."

"What?"

"Why are you a ghost?"

"Um… I died."

"Yes, yes I know, but… not every wizard who dies returns as a ghost. Most just.. Die. Why did you come back?"

At this, Myrtle started to puff herself up, her eyes threatening to tear up. "You didn't want me back, is that it!? Hoped stupid ugly Myrtle would just die and go away and stop bothering you, eh?!"

"No! No! Of course not!" He was sorry he had brought it up. He wished he could just change the subject, but it was too late. She started to cry and his heart was broken.

"You try dying, why don't you?! See how scared you get!" With that, Myrtle hopped fully in her toilet and flushed herself away. He called after her, but she didn't answer. He stood there, staring where she had once been and almost started to cry himself. He had seen so many others make her cry while she was at Hogwarts. He never wanted to be one of them.

But now, he was.

He turned to go and started walking out of the bathroom when one of the Ravenclaw girls pushed through the door and froze when she saw him.

"What are you doing in here?!"

"I was just-"

"This is the girls lavatory."

"I know, I was… visiting."

"Visiting?" she asked, perplexed until she had a second to think. "Oh! Moaning Myrtle! Is she still in here?"

Clark was disheartened how fast the nickname had arisen for a girl who had died only the year before. "No, she took off down the toilet."

"Good, I didn't want to have to go up a floor." She seemed genuinely relieved, as if she heard that a prank was not going to be pulled on her. Clark wanted to say something to her about how disgusting it was that she was treating a dead girl as a pest and not a suffering being. He wanted to tell her what a shame it was that she never reached out to Myrtle in life, and tried to ease the hurt that was relentlessly inflicted on someone just because she was an easy target. He wanted to say much to her, but instead he said nothing. It would serve no purpose to shame her for something she would not feel sorry for.

"Excuse me? Could you go?" she said, holding the door open.

Clark smiled at her and left. He traipsed his sodden shoes all the way to the great hall, ate a quick lunch, and then did as Myrtle guessed, and went outside for the afternoon. It was a sunny autumn day, where the sun was warm but the breeze was cool. The black lake shimmered and the grass was soft and inviting. He took off his shoes and waded a bit in the water, making sure not to go deep enough to attract the tentacles of the giant squid. When he had finished splashing he had found a comfortable tree to lean against on the bank, got out his astronomy book and began to read. He let his rat rattle around him, hopping and scuttling all over: shaking the branches enough to make leaves fall and getting fixated with chasing a grasshopper. He was in the middle of a passage about the dog star when a large shadow was cast over him

"Wot's tha?"

Clark looked over his book and was met with a shock. Standing nearby was the large boy that had been expelled for his involvement with the attacks last year. He was an enormous Gryffindor boy who would have been in his fourth year, but the school governors made sure that he wasn't. He didn't know his name, but he knew his reputation. And it was that part of him that never made any sense with the attacks.

"Wot's tha?" he said again, pointing with a hand that held a bucket.

He was pointing to the clockwork rat that was scampering down the tree. Clark had never spoken to him before, and he was a little nervous to. This was the person who was responsible for Myrtle's death. Or was he? Why would the school let a killer stay on as an assistant groundskeeper? "It's a rat I transfigured in class. Part clock, part rat."

The big boy looked at the rat with a gleam of fascination. That was one of the few things he knew about the boy. He was all about magical creatures. The wilder the better. And that was what caused all the trouble last year and killed Myrtle. But looking at him now, Clark was baffled by how such a soft kid would let something so awful happen.

Something caused the bucket he was holding to shift and he broke his stare to catch it from tipping. "What have you got there?" he asked.

He looked a little sheepishly at Clark before lowering the bucket a little. "Bowtruckles. They were gettin inta tha orchard so they had me move'n 'em, y'see."

Clark stood up and walked toward the bucket and looked down at the bundle of twigs that looked back at him. He waved at them and one waved back. "Moving them where?"

"Ta Kettleburn's lodge over'n the forest. Wants to show'em to tha-" The boy stopped speaking and was staring at Clark's chest. Clark was certain what he was staring at. The green and silver S of Slytherin House shined on his chest in the sun, and the former Gryffindor Lion just noticed it. The boy stood up straight, stiffined his face and said, "Alrigh, go ahead."

"Go ahead what?"

"Laugh at me. Like yeh want teh."

Clark felt as if his day was a broken record. He wondered if it was the way he says things, or the way he looks that sets people off on him. Whatever the case may be, he did not like that his meaning was always getting twisted into something bad.

"I'm not going to laugh at you."

"Sure," the boy said gruffly, before turning around and stomping way. Clark stood next to the lake and listened to the water lap against the shore for a moment. He wondered if this were going to be something he would have to deal with his whole life. Would he be perpetually incapable of representing himself and what he thinks and feels, or will he be trapped inside a bumbling, unappealing shell that people associate with all of the worst traits people can have by virtue of the badge he wears. The wind whistled a bit in his ears just before a voice spoke to him.

"Talking to a killer?"

Clark turned around and saw that someone else had joined him by the tree. He was leaning up against it, the dark cloak billowing around him and yet his equally dark hair didn't get tousled. The young man stared at him with dark intense eyes that could have been knives peeling away at him. Clark looked back at his classmate with a nervousness he hoped he was hiding.

"You sure he's a killer, Tom?"

"I should know, shouldn't I? I caught him."

That was true. Tom had been the one to stop the reign of terror that the "Heir of Slytherin" wrought. It was just too late for Myrtle. Thinking about it now, he was sure the extra rejection of Slytherins by the other houses was certainly a product of the house being implicated in attacks on students. He wondered if he could have convinced the sorting hat to put him somewhere else. Hufflepuffs are nice people, who wouldn't want to be friends with them?

"Why aren't you in class?" asked Tom in his Prefect voice.

"Professor's on probation, so I have the afternoon off." Though he was only a year older, Tom had an unhealthy air of authority that seemed to impress most of the other slytherins. But Clark was certain he had more friends outside the house than Tom ever had. He was proud of that. "Why aren't you in class?"

"That's none of your business," he sneered back, stepping off of the tree. He looked over the lake, and smiled at it as if it was his. But then, his face become intensely serious once again. "You've been spending much of your time interacting with students outside of our house. Why is that?"

Tom made him feel as if this were an exam at which he could fail. But he had to snap himself out of this imposed inferiority. "I like them, so I become their friend. That's pretty much how it works, right?"

"You don't need friends outside of Slytherin. The best of the school have been sorted together. Why bother look anywhere else?"

"The best at what? Being disliked by all the other houses, or getting wrapped up in the stain of dark wizardry?"

The cold gaze given by Tom made clark turn away instantly. "Are you disrespecting the name of Slytherin?!" Tom took a step toward him.

"I have said nothing of the kind! I'm… look. Slytherin's are supposed to be the most ambitious of wizards, right? Well it makes sense to forge as many connections and alliances you can. To be ambitious means you are going to need other people to help you achieve those ambitions. People of all kinds, I must say."

Tom's glare cooled, and his eyes weren't as wide anymore. He still regarded Clark with a dirt worthy stare. "Perhaps you need other's help. I need no one."

"Is that so? What do you want to do outside of Hogwarts?"

Tom shifted his eyes a bit. "What ambitions do you have?"

"Me?" Clark noticed the deflected question, but let it happen. "I like the idea of working in Magical research, new spell development, that sort of thing. The muggles are doing some fascinating things with technology these days and I think integrating it with Magic will have some fun results." Clark paused for a moment, realizing that mentioning muggles around Tom was a big mistake.

"I have designs to develop new magic. I intend to be the first wizard in history to develop true flight. But I must tell you how unpleasant it sounds to despoil the magical world with the crude mechanizations of muggles. Their pathetic attempts to live without magic have not brought them anywhere near us in power."

"True, I guess," he said, still treading lightly, but almost tempted to push. He was starting to get out from under the forced authority to see Tom as just an angry kid. Angry kids aren't scary. "But Wizards in the past have seen merit in them and their works. Why, look at Slytherin's own Merlin, who aided the greatest king in England's history in creating a just kingdom for all."

"Merlin?! The pet of a muggle King, reduced to being a trick performer and soothsayer to a stable boy with a sword? THAT Merlin? He was an early shame on the house of Slytherin, and could have brought ruin onto all wizards by revealing his nature to the muggles."

Clark was absolutely furious now. People could ignore him, make fun of him, and treat him like a garden gnome, but no one could insult the greatest Wizard in all of history. "Well, I wager people will still be remembering him fondly after they have forgotten about you." The glare he received was almost sweet. "In any case, they don't know about magic anymore. How can they aspire to things they don't know about?

"They knew once. A part of them will always be envious of what they do not have. They will never be content without it."

"At least we're unknown to them."

"For now."

There was a look Tom gave that chilled Clark once again. It was a look of confidence and triumph that Clark did not want to see. Under that look, Clark inadvertently sputtered out, "You sound like Grindlewald."

The look lingered on Tom's face for a second more before he turned towards something on the ground and made a face. "What is that?"

Clark saw his clockwork rat chewing on his astronomy book and picked it up. "Just an experiment."

"An experiment in what?"

"Trying to explore the concept of spirit and animism in objects. I'm curious what happens to the soul of an animate thing when it is transfigured into an inanimate thing. And I wonder from where a spirit comes to animate an object once you turn it into an animal."

Tom looked at the rat with vague interest, but was also clearly contemplating leaving. "Any conclusions reached?"

"Not definitively, but one thing I can't rule out is that the soul is simply retained in the object. I mean, Koschei the Deathless was an example of that."

"Deathless," said Tom, suddenly enraptured by Clark's ever word. His eyes were nearly gleaming with interest. "Who is that?"

Clark, who placed his rat in his pocket, felt the smallest surge of self importance at a skilled prefect's interest in what he had to say. "Koschei? You don't know about him? Oh, he was a wizard from the time of the four founders. Russian, powerful, dark as magic gets. Read about him because I love history. Not just English but world wizarding history. Why, it's from Russia that the most powerful witch in history comes: Baba Yaga. Granted she loved stews made of children, but she was a powerful witch with a hut up on chicken legs-"

"What about this Koschei the Deathless?"

"Right, well Koschei was a fiend of a wizard. He would abduct the wives of noblemen for money and for fun. Had a horse that could run across all of russia in a single day, and could sustain himself on a crumb of bread and a few drops of water. Anyway, the story goes is that everyone tried to kill him. Muggle knights and kings, powerful witches and wizards, even the founders themselves tried to kill him. But no matter how many times his body was attacked he survived. And it wasn't until after over a hundred years of this dark lord terrifying the entire continent that his secret was finally revealed and he was destroyed."

"What was that secret?"

"He had taken his soul, or at least a piece of it, and hidden it away. He had placed it in a needle which he hid in an egg, inside a duck, inside a hare in an iron chest buried under an iron oak."

There was something in Tom's face that made Clark suddenly very unhappy.

"At least, that's the legend. There are some who think that 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart' was inspired by Koschei, or the legend was applied to him to make sense of his longevity. No one knows if it's true or not."

"Interesting," was all Tom said at first. But then, casually, Tom removed his wand, pointed it at Clark, and he felt a tug on his robes. His clockwork rat was floating in the air between them flailing helplessly. "That story made me curious," he said, turning his wand to twist the rat around, "Did you dissect your experiment to find the soul?"

A few cogs popped out of the rat and it writhed as if in pain. "Stop that."

"What piece could the soul be in?" A spring and a bolt were pried out. "Would it be an important piece, or just a random part?" The rat was definitely in pain now and unable to use some of its limbs.

"Stop! Why are you doing this?"

"Or maybe it's like a person? When enough pieces get removed, the body just dies." He slowly started to pry a giant spring out of the rat, it whining mechanically.

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Tom's wand flew from his hand, into the air and landed in Clark's just as he caught the falling rat. Tom looked as furious as Clark felt, and had instantly jutted his hand out at him.

"Give it back!"

"Why did you do that?"

"My wand! Now!"

"Why did you do it?"

"Why do you care? It is only a rat. Wand! Now!"

Clark desperately wanted to throw Tom's wand into the lake, and stamp off with his head held high. But the sun was reflecting off of his prefect badge, and he knew he may already be in trouble. He handed the wand over to him, and Tom quickly placed it in his robes.

"Clever spell."

"Truly," said Clark, "One of Merlin's best."

Tom gave a pinched smile before turning towards the castle. A sudden thrill of panic swept through him and he feared he was about to be reported to the headmaster.

"Where are you off to now?" Clark asked.

"To the Library. I want to look into some history. Your story was very intriguing."

Hoping that he was telling the truth, Clark let himself feel relieved. "Going to the Slug Club tonight, Tom?"

"See you there," he said as he walked away.

Clark looked at his poor rat and assessed the damage. He found the missing pieces, mended him back together. And then, after he had fully fixed him, he transfigured him back into a fully furry rat. The rat seemed a little confused at first, but as soon as it was placed down, it ran off across the grass, heading for the trees of the forest. Clark watched him disappear, and then for a little while longer he looked out onto the Lake.

He wondered if the rat felt trapped in that mechanical body he had made, or the clock before that. Did it feel as if it were stuck inside something it did not feel it was, and yet it was all the same? Clark Davis was a Slytherin, but he was not what people saw him as. He wasn't the face he hated having either, or even the voice that could say the wrong thing. He was a thing sadly inexpressible to most, and because of that easily dismissed and forgotten. He sometimes wondered what it would take for him to make any difference in the world at all.


End file.
